


Suck it Nancy Drew

by TheBashfulPoet



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clarke and Murphy are bros, Clarke is a sass master, Detective!Bellamy, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, accidental detective au, all the sass, doctor!clarke, nancy drew-ish, not really - Freeform, rating mostly for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-04 06:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6644806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBashfulPoet/pseuds/TheBashfulPoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke Griffin is a lot of things, but a detective she is not, at least, until her best friend (and love of her life) Bellamy, stumbles into her apartment late one night dead on his feet and running a high fever. Suddenly Clarke finds herself on the hunt for an elusive thief that has managed to both outwit Bellamy and his partner, Miller. Then again, this thief has never met Clarke Griffin.</p>
<p>AKA an Accidental Detectives AU which I had way too much playing around with for Bellarke Spring Fling Exchange</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suck it Nancy Drew

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elegantstupidity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantstupidity/gifts).



> This is for [elegantstupidity](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantstupidity/pseuds/elegantstupidity) as a part of the Spring Fling Bellarke exchange.  
> I sincerely hope you enjoy the story! I'm a huge fan of your work :DD

 

            Now if you asked Clarke days off were meant for pjs, bowls of popcorn, and binge watching tv shows on Netflix. Sadly, no one told Clarke that becoming an ER doctor involved way too much paperwork. So, unfortunately, Clarke's Tuesday evening included pjs, a bowl of popcorn, and a stack of reports she needed to finish by the end of the week. (No one said she had to give up _everything_.)

            She's in the middle of her third report (Jasper and Monty had brought in a young girl who had fallen from a two story window and shattered her arm and fractured her collar bone. It was bad) when she heard the familiar sound of keys being inserted into a door lock. _Her_ door lock. Now only two people had the key to her apartment (there used to be three but Jasper and Monty got theirs revoke because Clarke doesn't take kindly to being woken up to try new moonshine recipes) and one of them is on some political campaign with his father two states over.

            She sits in waiting silence as the door fumbles open and she hears a series of soft thuds (meaning they are leaving a trail of their shit on her floor or they are possibly the worst burglar known to mankind) leading all the way to her door. Her doorknob rattles as the, possible, burglar grabs the handle and twist it. The door swings opens revealing someone who is most definitely _not_ going to rob her. She lets loose a breath she didn't know she was holding.

            "Bellamy?" Her eyes dart over to her alarm clock. It reads just a little after two. "What are you-"

            She doesn't get the chance to finish before Bellamy is crossing the room and falling face first onto the second half of the bed. He barely gives her enough time to scramble for the bowl of popcorn (though to be fair it was really more a bowl of kernels at this point) before he could crush it under his weight. Sadly, the same thing could not be said about her reports.

            "Bell." She sets the bowl down on the other ground and prods his arm, "You're on my papers. Move."

            With a grumble into the pillow, he obliges by rolling onto this side so she can pull the papers free. He flops back down on his stomach as soon as her hands are clear. She rolls her eyes and lets them roam across his prone form. One look and she can tell he's still in his work clothes, a pressed white dress shirt and a pair of black slacks (his shoes are missing, but Clarke can take a good guess as to where she could find them). She sighs heavily, already piecing together the reason for the intrusion. Truthfully it wasn't the first time something like this has happened and she doubts it will be the last.

            Whenever Bellamy has a particularly long shift (or on occasion an particularly _bad_ one), he would somehow find himself wandering over to Clarke's and crashing on her couch (read bed). He _claims_ that her place is closer to the precinct he's assigned to and that it is just easier to sleep at her place than walk back to his. (It's a blatant lie. she googled it once; her place is nearly ten minutes further.)

            "You know," Clarke resituates her work to accommodate her new bed partner, "I don't barge into your place on your days off." She did. All the time.

            No response.

            "Bell," she pokes him in the cheek, "Why are you here?"  
            He mumbles something into the pillow.

            "Not that I don't love you company, but it is quite unusual for even you to pop in this late."

            More mumbling.

            "You know I can't actually understand a word you say with your face smashed into a pillow right?"

            Yet another mumble. She pokes him harder.

            "Bellamy."

            With a heave of his chest, he turns his face so his brown eyes meet hers. "I got off a long shift and would like nothing better than to go to sleep."And with that, he buries his face back into the pillow.

            "How long?" She thinks she hears a soft snore. Another poke. "Bellamy. How long?"

            "Three days…"

            "Excuse me? It sounded like you just said _three days_ , but I know I must have misheard you."

             He rolls onto his back and throws an arm over his eyes and let's loose a groan, "Clarke-"

            "Because if I know you— and I do know you, Bellamy Blake— that means you have spent three whole nights working yourself to exhaustion, probably not eat anything more substantial than coffee and whatever you can scavenge out of the vending machine, only to crash on those _shitty_ cots in the precinct, and only then for a couple of hours."

            "Clarke."

            "But you wouldn't be that stupid now would you? Not after what happened last time." She warns carefully.

            "Clarke."

            "I bet you have a fucking stress fever again." She lashes out a hand and rest it on his forehead. The flesh beneath her hand is hot to the touch. "Shit. You _do_ have a fever."

            He pushes her hand away, "S'okay."

            She grits her teeth, "No, it's not _okay_ , Bellamy. You're burning up!"

            "M'fine."

            Clarke groans and throws off the covers, "You're impossible, and I hate you."

            He hums and buries his face back into the pillow, moving onto his right side so his back was to her. "N'you don't."

            She sighs, knowing he's right, but still not willing to give him the satisfaction of it. She crosses her arms and stares down at him. He's practically asleep at this point, so there is no point for her to keep arguing with him. She lays her hand against the back of his neck and, sure enough, it's way hotter than it should be.

            "What did you get yourself into, Bell?" She's worrying her bottom lip.

***

            The next morning Clarke wakes up curled in a ball on the edge of her bed and surrounded by papers. One quick look at the clock tells her it is only 6:00. Wearily, she lifts her head to look over her shoulder and sure enough, Bellamy is still there. In his unconscious state, Bellamy had rolled into the middle of the bed—hence why Clarke was forced to the corner of her _own_ bed— and is sleeping away soundly. His arm is thrown over his eyes to protect them from the sunlight streaming in through the window and his curls are plastered against his forehead beneath the washcloth she placed there last night to help break his fever.

            She picks herself off the bed, careful not to jostle him awake, and stretches her arms above her head until her shoulder pop backs into place. Grabbing her phone from the charging station on her nightstand, she pads around her room in search of clothes. She picks up a pair of black jeans, what she thinks is one of Wells' old Harvard rowing t-shirts, a bra, and her pair of beat up Chucks and disappears into the bathroom to change. (She could have changed in her room, but she didn't want to run the risk of Bellamy waking up.) When she reemerges, she spares a glance at Bellamy to assure he's still asleep before slipping out the room. She closes the door with the softest click she can manage and tiptoes away.

            The first thing she notices is the trail of stuff lining the way to her bedroom door. His shoes are thrown about as if he had kicked them off while walking. His keys are on the floor by the couch and his gun (thank god) is on the end table next to the front door (though not the smartest place for it, she’ll chalk it up to exhaustion). She sighs, shaking her head fondly, and starts picking up the mess. The first thing to go is his leather jacket (because Bellamy is _that_ stereotypical detective) that is crumpled up at her feet as she drapes it over her arm. By the time she makes it to the door, his keys are resting in the key bowl next to his gun, his shoes are tucked away neatly out of the way, and his leather jacket is wrapped snugly (read swallowing) against her shoulders.  She snuggles into the collar. _What Bellamy knows won’t hurt him_. Grabbing her own keys from the dish, she heads out the front door.

***

             Shoving the door open with her shoulder, Clarke barges into the Blake-Miller apartment. All of while —of course— screaming for its other occupant.

“Miller!”

            The man in question bolts from his position on the couch at high alert and reaches for his belt of which (luckily for her) is devoid of his gun. The tension falls from his shoulders the moment his eyes land on her still in the doorway. Once glance tells her what she already knew: he looks just as bad as Bellamy. There are dark circles rimming the bottom of his eyes; his chin is scruffy from days of not shaving, and his work clothes are rumpled from a night passed out on the couch.

            She kicks the door closed with the heel of her foot, “Good morning, sunshine!” She calls out giving him a bright smile.

            “Jesus Christ Clarke! I would have _shot_ you.” He runs a hand over his face.

            “Nah, you wouldn’t have.” She holds out one of the cups in her hands, “I come bearing gifts!”

            Miller groans and slumps back down onto the couch/make-shift bed, letting his head hang over the back. “What the hell do you want, Clarke? Blake’s not here, which means he’s at your place. Therefore, there is absolutely no reason for you to be here at this god forsaken hour.”

            “Aww, come on Miller!” Clarke plops right down next to him, “Can’t I bring my favorite detective some coffee?”

            He snorts and lifts his head, “I’ll believe that the day Blake quits the force.” His eyes fall to the cup still in her hand, “Is that white mocha?”

            “With a shot of raspberry.”

            He greedily grabs for the cup and takes a hearty gulp. She waits patiently for him to lower the cup before she continues.

            “What do you want?” He beats her to the punch.

            Clarke blinks, feigning innocence, “Why I don’t know-”

            “Clarke.”

            She sags against the cushion, “Okay fine. What kind of case are you guys working on that it’s got you and Bellamy running yourselves ragged?”

            Miller gives her a blank stares, “No.”

            “No? No what?” She frowns, “What the hell does no _mean_?”

            “Just that. No.” He picks himself up off the couch and downs the rest of his drink.

            She watches him in silent fury as he pads away from the couch and into the kitchen. Twisting around in her seat, she glares daggers into his back as he rummages in the fridge for food.

            “Well why not?!”

            Miller sighs and closes the fridge, pulling free a carton of eggs with him, “Because if I tell you _anything_ about this case, Bellamy is going to have my ass.  I like my ass, Clarke. My boyfriend likes my ass. _You_ like my ass. I’m not risking it just so you can play Nancy Drew.”

            Clarke rolls her eyes (Miller _does_ have a nice ass, but that’s beside the point right now) and hops over the back of the couch. She seats herself at the island directly in front of him. “Come on, Miller! Who said Bell is going to find out?”

            “I do,” he grunts, grabbing a bowl from the cabinet and joining her at the island, “because once I tell you about the case, you’re—somehow— going to get yourself involved by doing God knows what, which will lead to you doing something stupid that Bellamy will get wind of and boom!”  He cracks an egg into the bowl, “No more Miller.”

            “I’m not going to do anything stupid!” She pouts.

            “You’re right,” he nods, “because I’m not telling you anything.”

            “But Miller-”

            “Nope.”

            “Just-”

            “No.”

             He cracks a few more eggs, not meeting her eyes, while she just stares at him in disbelief. Finally, she sighs heavily.

            “I didn’t want to do this, but you leave me no choice,” she folds her hands under her chin, “I’m just going to have to tell a certain someone who spilled coffee all over his precious laptop last month.”

            Miller halts mid crack and slants his eyes into a glare, “You wouldn’t dare.”

            Clarke leans forward, “Try me.”

            Seconds tick by as they stand down, neither one of them willing to back down. Inevitably, Miller is the first to crack.

            “Really, Clarke? Resorting to blackmail these days? I’m disappointed.”

            She snorts, “Yeah, uh-huh, sure. Now tell me about this case.”

            He sighs and pushes aside the bowl, “What do you want to know?”

            “Give me the basic run through.”

            “Okay, fine.” He leans onto his elbows, “About a month ago the station started getting a lot of reports of robberies all over the upper east area. Not really our division but a lot of the houses belonged to the rich and entitled, so people were breathing down Kane’s neck to get something done about it, which, of course, meant he was breathing down _our_ necks. Still, not much to do when we don’t have jurisdiction over the crimes.”

            “But,” Clarke prompts.

            “But then the bastard went and made it our jurisdiction.” He grimaces as if tasting something foul in his mouth, “A young woman, couldn’t have been more than twenty years old.” His hand balls into a fist, “She must have walked in on the burglary, or maybe she was already there when it happened, either way, she didn’t survive the encounter.”

            Clarke lays a hand over his fist. That’s the thing about having a job surrounded by death, the victims you couldn’t save will always haunt you. She gives his hand a little squeeze, “Any suspects?”

            “No. We’ve been tracking this guy for _weeks_ , but he’s a pro. No fingerprints. No signs of forced entry. Hell, even the damn dogs don’t bark at this guy. It’s like he’s some sort of ghost.”

            “Seriously? Nothing? He didn’t make one mistake, not even during his first hit?”

             “The most we’ve got is a broken window, and even then we’re not sure it was him.”

            Clarke taps a finger to her lips in thought, “What else can you tell me?”

            Miller shakes his head, standing up straight, “Nuh-uh, no more. I’ve told you just enough for my ass to be in enough trouble as is.” He points a finger at her, “You figure out the rest on your own, or, if you love me, stay the hell out of it.”

            “Oh come on, just give me one more thing!”

            “Nope.” He reaches for the bowl of eggs once more, “Now do you want some eggs?”

            “Nah,” she sighs, “I should get back and grab my stuff for work.”

            Miller nods his head thoughtfully, “Good, then get out of my house.”

            “Technically it’s an apartment,” she smirks, already rising from her seat.

            “Semantics,” he waves her off and she laughs, heading for the door. She nearly outside, when Miller calls out, “Leave Monty out of it!”

***

            When Clarke gets back to her apartment she realizes she has about another hour before she has to leave for her shift at the hospital. Instead of crawling into her bed (like she wanted to and Bellamy is _still_ hogging her entire bed) she decides her time was better spent on making breakfast for the two of them (because god knows Bellamy won’t eat if she doesn’t). She opens her cabinet and looks for the easiest thing she could make with minimal effort. Despite what her friends like to say, she actually _can_ cook (you burn one lasagna and suddenly you can’t cook anything.)

            Finding a box of cream of rice hidden in the back, she decides that is as good as anything and pulls off a pot from the rack above the oven. Oddly enough, she is pretty sure Bellamy is the one who last bought her the box (he’s oddly obsessed with the stuff). She shrugs, either way, it was easy enough to make and taste great with raisins. It doesn’t take her more than 20 minutes before she’s sitting down on the couch with a bowl and a spoonful of creamy raisin filled goodness.  In the meanwhile, she scrolls through facebook. Mainly it’s just pictures of whatever bullshit couple exercise Octavia and Lincoln are doing, hipster picture of coffee cups from Monty, and an ungodly amount of dog videos Jasper shared (those are her favorite).

By the time she eats her last spoonful, it is nearly time for her to leave. After dumping her dishes into the sink, she makes her way back into her bedroom. By now, Bellamy had rolled over onto his side, taking all the blankets and sheets with him, and curled up into a blanket burrito. She shakes her head fondly at the sight (really she should not be surprised at this point. Bellamy is an active sleeper.) and begins packing her back. When she finishes loading her reports, she settles down next to him on the side of the bed. She tests her hand against his forehead and — thankfully— it seems that his fever has finally broken. Letting loose a sigh, she starts carting her fingers through the curls that rest just above his eyes. He hums under her touch.

“Wake up, Bell.” She whispers, letting her nails drag against his scalp.

He hums and snuggles into the touch, “Hm, wha?” His eyes crack open, “What’s going on?”

She lets her fingers run through once more, before folding her hands in her lap, “I’m leaving for work in a little bit.”

“Oh,” he yawns and struggles to sit in an upright position, “I’ll just-”

            “You’ll just be going back to bed,” she places a hand against his chest and gently pushes him back down, “I didn’t wake you to kick you out, you practically live here. I woke you up to tell you I’m going to work.” She runs a hands through his curls again (sue her, she really likes his hair), “That and there is cream of rice on the stove for you, and it better be gone by the time I get back from work.” (Not that she would be home anytime soon to actually follow through with any threats.)

            “Did you eat?”

            “Yes, I ate.” She rolls her eyes. _Always thinking about others._ “Now you need to eat.”

             He smiles and snuggles back into his blankets, “’Kay. Have a good day at work.” He yawns, eyes slowly closing, “Love you.”

            She feels the familiar pang of ache in her chest. It is the same ache she always gets when Bellamy is a little too affectionate with her (which happens way too much than can be healthy for her heart).

            “Love you too, Bell.”And she means it.

            Loving Bellamy has become this unmistakable part of her life, so much so, it is as noticeable as breathing.  She wakes up loving Bellamy, she goes to work loving Bellamy, and she goes to sleep loving Bellamy. Breathe in, breathe out. Years ago, a thought like this would have frightened her (what with a dating record as shitty as hers), but now it is not something she questions. She _loves_ Bellamy and if she does not get anything more than having him in her life as a friend, she is okay with that (or rather she will _learn_ to be okay).

            “Get some rest; I’ll talk to you later.”

            “Bye,” he hums, but it is less of a word and more of a series of noises.

            She turns to leave when she hears another soft mumble that sounds like _leave the jacket_ , but suddenly she cannot understand him. Throwing a strap over her shoulder, she leaves, jacket— of course— in tow.

***

**Did you take my jacket?**

**What? No….**

*******

Clarke slams down her tray as she slides into the seat across from Lincoln, “This is impossible!”

            Lincoln raises an eyebrow, “What? Eating lunch?” A smile lights up his eyes, “You just pick up the fork and-”

            “Oh bite me!” She stabs her fork into her salad, “It’s this case! I’ve been thinking about it all day and I _still_ don’t even know where to start.”

            “Wait, you lost me. Are you working on some patient I don’t know about?”

            Clarke’s eyes snap to his, “How would you go about catching a criminal?”

            “How would who catch a what now?” Jasper says he slides into the seat to the right of her.

            “I believe she said something about criminals?” Monty adds as he joins them at Lincoln’s left.

            Clarke shakes her head, “Nope, Nuh-uh. I’m under strict orders _not_ to get you involved by your boyfriend.”

            “What the hell does Miller have to do with this?” Lincoln cuts in, still really confused.

            “Does that mean you cannot tell me?” Jasper nudges her with his shoulder.

            Clarke turns to look at him and they share a mischievous grin, “Well he didn’t say anything about _that_.”

            “Okay,” Lincoln claps his hands together, grabbing everyone’s attention, “You need to start from the beginning.”

            Clarke sighs and slumps into her seat, “Bellamy came to my place last night-”

            “Oh my god, please tell me mom and dad are finally getting married!”

            “Wha- no Jasper!” Clarke shakes her head, “ _Anyways_ Bellamy came over last night completely exhausted and running another stress fever-”

            “Seriously again?” Jasper interrupts.

            “I swear to God, Jasper.” She warns, “So Bellamy, stress fever, working for three days straight on some robbery turned homicide case because the robber is a dick.” She takes a deep breath, “So, how do I go about catching a criminal?”

            All three stare at her as if she grew a second head.

            “So let me get this straight,” Lincoln starts, “You are trying to catch a criminal because Bellamy is overworking himself like usual.”

            “Pretty much, yeah.” Clarke shrugs.

            Monty shakes his head, “You are so far gone, it’s sad.”

            Clarke’s head hits the table, “I know. I’m pathetic.” She tilts her head so she meets his eyes, “Help me?”

            They all share a look before shaking their heads. “Fine, we’ll help.”

            “Awesome. So how do I do it?”

            “Well that’s obvious,” Jasper says around a bite of his sandwich, “To catch a criminal, you need a smarter criminal.”

            Clarke perks up, “A smarter criminal?”

            “Yeah,” Jasper nods, “the reason you’re having such a hard time trying to figure out how to catch this thief is because you’re _not_ a criminal.” Clarke opens her mouth to protest, “Our juvie stint doesn’t count.”

            Monty rolls his eyes, “What Jasper is trying to say is that cops are trained to think a certain way in order to catch criminals. We— as doctors, nurses, and paramedics— are not. Therefore, you need someone to act as a translator of sorts.”

            “And it needs to be a criminal because no cop is ever going to talk to you.” Lincoln chips in.

            “A criminal you say…” She drums her fingers on the table.

***

            “What the fuck do you want Clarke?” The voice grumbles from the other end of the line.

            “Why, Murphy, is that any way to greet a friend?”

            “It is when that _friend_ wakes the other person up.”

            Clarke lowers the phone to check the time, “It’s 7 in the evening, Murphy.”

            “Yeah well, some people didn’t get home until 6:50. What do you want?”

            “Wait, where the fuck have you been all day?”

            Murphy groans and she thinks she hears the clink of a bottle cap hitting the floor, “You, know I don’t ask you what you do with your days.”

            Clarke snorts and shifts the phone to her other ear, “Bull, you text me at least twice a day asking me to come hang out with you.” (Oddly enough she did not get a text today.)

            “What do you want?” He groans.

            “I need your help with something.”

            There is a small pause followed by the sound of him gulping, “And why should I help you?”

            “Because no one else gets drinks with you on Friday nights?”

            “And?”

            “And I’ll owe you one?” She offers.

            “Clarke, princess, you owe me like 5 already.”

            “ _Excuse you?_ Who saved your ass from that bar fight last week?”

            “ _Who_ started it?”

            “ _You_ did!”

            There is another small pause. “Oh yeah, huh. Fine, what do you need?”

            “Your criminal expertise.”

            “Urgh,” he groans, “I’m going to be really pissed if I end up back in jail because of this— whatever this is.”

            She smiles brightly, “You’re the best. I get off at midnight.”

            “I’ll pick you up around then,” and with that, he ends the call without another word.

***

            Clarke’s filling out a report while leaning against the nursing station when she spots a familiar lanky form wander into the hallway. She quickly finishes up the last few lines before sliding the board into the finished pile.

            “Murphy!” She hisses, “What the hell are you doing in here? How the hell did you even _get_ in here.”

            Murphy shrugs, “Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.”

            Clarke pressed her middle fingers to her temples and starts rubbing small circles into them. “You’re right, I don’t want to know. Just, why didn’t you just text me? I would have met you outside.”

            She looks him over. He’s dressed in his usual leather jacket hoodie combo (with the hood drawn up of course), a black t-shirt, and a pair of ratty torn jeans she swears she has thrown out at least three times by now. (She does not know if he is digging them out of the trash or just buying more, either way she is burning the next pair.)

            “I need you to pull up some ER records for me.” He says nonchalantly.

            “What the fu- no! Why would I _ever_ do that?”

            Murphy gives her this look that screams she is obviously missing something here (She’s not, Murphy is just a dick.) “Because you want my help catching a criminal right?”

            Clarke eyebrows furrow in confusion, “Wha- how did you even _know_ about that?”

            “You’re kidding right?” He snorts, “You call me asking for my ‘criminal expertise.’ Ergo you either need my help breaking into someplace, or you need my help catching some other thief.” He pauses, “Wait, you don’t need to break into a place right? Because I left that kit back in my apartment.”

            Clarke plugs her ears, “Lalalala! I don’t need to know of your _hobbies_ in detail, especially when two of my best friends are _cops_!”

            Murphy waves her off, “Blake and Miller would have pinched me years ago if they were going to.”

            Clarke sighs, covering her eyes with a hand, “Can we just get back on topic here. Why do you want me to pull up ER records?” He opens his mouth to respond, but she cuts him off, “Yes, yes I _know_ to find the criminal, but _why_? What could they tell us?”

            “I’m guessing this thief of yours has made a mistake before, right?”

            “Nope.” She shakes her head, “The only _possible_ thing is a random broken window that they are not even sure was him.”

            “ _They_?” Murphy glares at her, “Shit, Clarke are you playing detective now? Why the fuck does Blake and Miller have you working on their case?”

            Clarke frowns, “They are not _having_ me work on anything.” She pauses, “They don’t even know…” she mumbles.

            Murphy— of course— closes his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath, “You owe me ten, now.”

            “Shut up. So no ER records, now what?”

            Murphy shoves his hands into his pockets, “Now I guess we pay a little someone a visit.”

***

            Clarke skeptically looks the building up and down, “Where are we again?”

            “A bar a friend of a friend owns.” Murphy answers, leading the way down the steps leading to the basement of the building, “A perfect place to start looking for some answers.”

            “Uh-huh, and will I get stabbed before I can find them?”

            He gives her a toothy grin, “Not if you play it cool and shut your mouth.”

            She snorts, “Lead the way then.”

            When they reach the door, Murphy raps twice with his knuckles then pounds into it with his first. In a matter of seconds a small panel slides open (which really? Talk about typical criminal hangout cliché.) and a pair of brown eyes scrutinizes them.

            “Password?”

            “Oh fuck off, John.” Murphy growls, shoving his hands back into his pockets, “It’s cold as balls out here, let me in.”

            “Who’s the chick?”

            “A friend.” He answers tersely, “She’s with me.”

            The panel slides shut and the door opens a few seconds later.

“Welcome to Polis,” the bouncer— John apparently— greets. His eyes hungrily check her out, “Enjoy the stay.” He gives her a grin that is more animal than charm.

Clarke scrunches her nose, “Oh I’m _sure_ I will.”

Murphy snorts and pushes past John. Clarke follows closely at his heels. The whole place reeks of stale beer and cigarette smoke. There is music blaring from an old jukebox shoved into the corner of the room, but the sound of billiard balls colliding together drown out the tune, making the song unrecognizable. She catches a few eyes drift her way (probably curious about the newcomers), but most do not even bother looking up from what they are doing. Murphy is still making his way across the room and head straight for the long bar nestled at the right of the crowd. Behind the counter is a single girl with her hair tied back in a bandana and a striking tattoo that curves along the left side of her nose and under her eye.

            “Emori,” Murphy greets when he reaches the bar at last.

            Emori smiles, “Murphy, what drags you out to this neck of the woods? I thought you were laying low for a while?”

            “So did I.” He taps two fingers on the counter, “Two of the usual, if you please.”

            The woman smirks and reaches below the bar for a couple of shot glasses that she place before them. “Who’s your friend?” She asks as she pours a bottle of Fireball into each glass.

            “You’ve all seemed to take quite the interest in me,” Clarke jumps in.

            Emori smiles, but Clarke takes little comfort in it, “We don’t like strangers around here.” She slides the shot glass towards Clarke.

            “I can see that,” Clarke mumbles as she shoots back her glass.

            “She’s with me,” Murphy supplies, “Completely harmless.” Clarke snorts and turns her back to the bar, “Well at least to you.”

            Emori hums, “Whatever you say, John.” She nudges the shot glass in his direction, “What can I help you with?”

            “We’re looking for someone.”

            “I know a lot of people,” she laughs.

            “Yeah, well this one will have been looking to sell a lot of goods in the past couple of months. Ring any bells?”

            “Hmm,” she taps her chin, “Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t. What do you want them for?”

            Murphy quirks an eyebrow, “You don’t really care about that, do you?”

            She laughs again, “I suppose you’re right. What’s the information worth to you?”

            “What do you want?”

            A predatory grin grows on her lips and her eyes drift up and down his body, “Oh I don’t know. I’m sure we could come up with some sort of deal.”

            “Yeah, I bet we could.” Murphy has a matching grin.

            Emori smirks and jerks her head in the direction of the pool table, “Talk to Otan over there. If anyone has been trying to move a large quantity of goods in this city, he would have heard about it.”

            Murphy knocks his knuckles against the counter, “Thanks.” He turns to Clarke, “Stay here.”

            Clarke waves him off; she’s more than willing to hang back and let him deal with these people. Like Monty said, she is not equipped to deal with this, so better to leave it to the expert. She’s about to turn and order another drink when her phone starts to vibrate in her pocket. She digs it out and sees a picture of her and Bellamy stare back at her. (It’s an old photograph with them at some bar with sunglasses on. She’s not even facing the camera and making a silly face, but she loves it all the more.) She’s already walking toward the exit by the time she raises the phone to her ear.

            “Hey Bell, what’s up?” The fresh air hits her like a wall the moment she steps outside.

            “Hey. You still at work?”

            “Nah, I’m at some bar with Murphy.” A bar full of probable criminals, but he did not really need to know that right now. Or ever. “Why did you need something?”

            “You mean besides my jacket?”

            “I have no idea to what you are referring.” She bundles the leather closer around her torso.

            He snorts on the other ends, “Yeah, I’m sure you don’t.”

            “Well I hope you didn’t just call to accuse me of stealing your leather jacket?”

            “Ah, yeah, no actually.” He rambles, “Look I’m sorry about last night. I should have given you a heads up or something before just barging in there like that.”

            “Don’t worry about it,” she waves a hand out of habit, “I’m used to my bed being commandeered by you at this point. What I’m more upset about is that fever.” She shifts the phone to the other ear, “You _know_ you’re not supposed to work yourself that hard!”

            “Geez you sound like you’re my doctor,” she can practically hear the eye roll in his voice.

            “You better hope I’m not your doctor. You wouldn’t be pulling that shit on my watch. Speaking of which, did you eat breakfast.”

            “Yes, Clarke.”

            “And did you eat lunch today?”

            “ _Yes_. Geez, you’re starting to sound like my sister. I swear if you start telling me to exercise more I’m going to hang up.”

            “Please, like you need the exercise.” They both laugh and Clarke leans against the wall next to the door, “So what are you up to right now? Laying in bed I presume.”

            Silence.

            “You are home right?”

More silence.

“Bellamy!”

            “What do you want me to tell you, Clarke? This case is kicking our asses and with Kane breathing down our necks we need to find this guy fast before he takes another victim.”

            “You can’t catch this guy if you drop dead from exhaustion first,” she hisses.

            “Clarke-”

            “No I’m serious, Bellamy. I’ve seen what happens when you get like this; it’s not healthy!”

            “Oh like you’re one to talk,” he bites back. “How many hours have you put into the hospital these past couple weeks? Don’t talk to me about overworking myself!”

            Clarke grits her teeth, “At least I’m responsible with my long hours! You don’t see me collapsing in your apartment whenever I get off shift!”

            “Fine! Then I guess I'll go back to my own apartment!”

            “That’s not what I’m saying!”

            “Then what are you saying?!”

            Clarke pinches the bridge of her nose and takes a deep breath, “I’m saying I’m worried, Bellamy. You can’t be pushing yourself this hard, okay? You’re all Octavia’s got. You’re all _I’ve_ got.”

            The line is silent for a moment until a deep sigh fills the receiver.

“You’re right. I _know_ you’re right,” he says at last. “It’s just this case…”

“I know, Bell, but you have to take care of yourself too.”

“Is that your advice as a doctor or as a friend?”

            “Both.” A moment of silence passes between them. “Go home Bellamy. Get some sleep and start again early tomorrow morning.”

            He chuckles, “Says the person who’s at a bar on a work night.”

            “Well one of us needs to be the responsible one.”

Another silence.

“Alright, fine.”

She lets loose a breath, “Thank you.”

“You go home too.”

            “I will, promise.”

            “Goodnight, Clarke.”

            “Night, Bell.” She hangs up just in time for Murphy to walk out the door. He raises an eyebrow and nods at the phone still in her hand. “Bellamy.” She tucks it back into her pocket, “Learn anything useful?”

            Murphy shrugs, “Got a few leads, but nothing concrete so far. Definitely not any shipments to be as big as this guy should be moving. So that means he’s either holding it all in storage or he’s selling it in small quantities to avoid detection.”

            “So that leaves us basically at square one still.”

            “Basically.”

            “Great.” She pushes herself off the wall, “Well I guess we’re just going to have to up our game.”

***

            “Clarke!”

            Clarke jostles awake and nearly does a face plant on the nurse station, “What’s going on?” She turns to see Monty looking at her with a bemused expression.

            “You were asleep while leaning against the nurse station.”

“What?” She looks over to Lincoln who is pointedly looking at the computer screen and typing away. It was still not enough to wipe the grin from his face. “Why didn’t you wake me up!”

Lincoln shrugs, “You looked like you could use the rest.”

Clarke sighs. That was the understatement of the year. It has been three days since Murphy and she went to the bar and still they could not find any leads on their mystery thief. They have been out every night tracking down different trails of big shipments. None of them match the amount their thief should have.  Clarke thinks she has maybe gotten 4 hours of sleep the past night.

            “Earth to Clarke,” Monty waves a hand in front of her face.

            She frowns and swats his hand away, “I’m not asleep!”

            “You sure about that? Look Clarke this is getting ridiculous.  I mean, when is the last time you’ve gotten a full night’s rest?”

“Before med school?”  Monty shoots her a look that tells her exactly how funny he finds her. “I don’t know Monty.”

            “Why are you pushing yourself so hard anyways?” He holds a hand up, “I know you are worried about Bellamy but are you really helping him by running yourself just as ragged as he is?”

            “Well, he wouldn’t _have to_ run himself ragged if I could just catch the damn guy. Or girl.” She pauses for a second, “I should look into that more…”

            “Clarke!”

            “If I just had more information,” She runs a hand through her hair, “then maybe I could find some pattern they missed or something!”

            Monty raises an eyebrow, “What makes you think you’d notice something they wouldn’t.”

            “New set of eyes and all that Jazz.” She waves a hand haphazardly, “But Miller won’t tell me anything more, the stubborn bastard. No offense.”

            Monty sighs, “You know, I was supposed to bring Miller lunch today, but I just remember that I have this thing to do with Jasper. Do you think you can take it?”

            “What thing with Jasper? Jasper isn’t even on shift right—” Monty levels her with a look.

            “Yeah, besides the precinct always gives me the heebie-jeebies, you know, with all that _evidence_ hanging around in plain view? Totally creeps me out.”

            “ _Oh_.” Clarke smiles, “Yeah, I could bring him lunch.”

***

            “I come bearing gifts!” She hears rather than sees Miller groaning in response.

            “Why are _you_ here?” Miller stands up at his desk. His scruff had gotten worse, but it still was not enough to give him a full beard.

            “Monty is busy, so he had me bring you guys lunch.” She waves a paper bag in front of her, “Burger?”

            “Clarke?” She turns around to see Bellamy emerging from behind a corner, “What are you doing here?”

            “Making sure you and Miller don’t starve to death.” She holds up the bag for him to see, “Brought you both some burgers and fries.”

            He strides over until he’s at her side and presses a kiss to her temple. “You are a God-send.” He grabs the bag from her hands and sets it down on his desk across from Miller’s.

            “More like a hell-spawn.” Miller mumbles and Clarke elbows him sharply in the ribs. “Ouch! Kidding!”

            “Yeah, well you’re being a dick.” She snorts.

            Bellamy is already diggings his share out of the bag when he turns to Clarke, “You staying for lunch or do you have to head straight back?”

            “I’ve got some time.” Clarke lingers around their desks and Bellamy offers her his chairs. She quickly shakes her head, “No you take it. You’re eating. I can stand for a bit.”

            Bellamy shrugs and sits down, both of the boys starting to dig into their meals. Clarke takes this opportunity to explore around. There is not much on their actual desks she can decipher; it all looks like a jumble of papers, but just a little bit beyond their desk it a smart board hanging on the wall with a map of Arcadia. There are several red dots scattered over the upper east.

            “Are these all the houses that have been robbed?” She asks.

            “Uh, yeah.” Bellamy swallows his food, “I think about 10 confirmed robberies so far.”

            She continues to study the map, there was something about the way the dots were scattered that bugged her. “Geez, I should really run up over to Well’s house and make sure everything is still there.” She laughs.

            “Does he have a security system?”

            She thinks about this for a second, “Yeah, I believe so.” _What is it about those dots…_

            “Then he should be fine.” Bellamy shrugs, “It seems the only thing our thief can’t do is bypass a security system, especially a good one like Jaha is bound to have.”

            “Really now?”

            “Yup. It’s probably why we are had such a hard time deciphering which robberies are our thief and which were another thief.”

            “Partners?”

            Bellamy waves her off, “Nope, we caught the second one. Still on the hunt for the original, though.”

            Suddenly the pieces clicked together why the dots were bugging her so much. “Son of a-”

            “Clarke?”

            She’s snapped out of her own thoughts, “Oh, sorry! I just remembered Monty wanted me to swing by and bring him some coffee on the way back.” She gives them a sheepish grin, “Oops! I guess I better get going.”

            Miller is giving her a dirty look like she spit in his burger while Bellamy looks almost disappointed.

            “Oh, well, see you later I guess?” He asks.

            “Yeah definitely!” She quickly pecks his cheek and then Miller’s before dashing for the exit. “See you!”

            Her phone is already out and dialing Murphy by the time she reaches the stairwell. “Murphy, I’ve got a lead and a big one.”

***

            It was one of those few nights in Clarke’s life where she was out of the hospital at a decent time in the evening and instead of spending it curled up on her couch, she is leaning over Murphy’s dingy kitchen table with a map spread out beneath her fingertips and a red marker in her left hand.

            “So he’s attacked here, here, and here.” She marks each with a circle on the map, “and then these places.” Once she’s marked all the houses down (thank god for photogenic memories!) she turns to Murphy, “See any pattern?”

            “Clarke all I see is dots scattered in the rich parts of Arcadia. What is this big lead you had?”

            She cocks an eyebrow and smirks, drawing a line that follows the dots almost exactly. “Do you know what this is?”

            “Connect the dots?”

            “It’s a popular dog trail.” She taps her fingers on the line, “Wells and I used to walk this trail all the time as kids _just_ to see the dogs.”

            “So?”

            “So, Miller had told me that even the dogs don’t bark at this guy— or girl— so what are the chances that they use this path to choose their targets? Hell, he could even be a dog walker or something.”

            Murphy’s eyes snap to hers, “Say that again.”

            “What that he uses the trail to choose the houses?”

            “The other part.”

            Her eyes widen, “They could be a dog walker.”

            “And I know just the person.”

***

            Murphy jogs back up the sidewalk and joins her at the front of the abandoned warehouse they had tracked down their mysterious thief to. Well, perhaps not so mysterious now. His name is Dax and he apparently walks dogs for a living, well, besides the grand larceny. Clarke can feel her whole body drum with excitement. _Finally_ Bellamy— and herself— will be able to get a full night’s rest. (At least until her early shift the next day.)

            “He’s in there all right,” Murphy digs his hands into his pockets.

            “Great, so what’s our plan?”

            “What do you mean? We call the cops. The rest is their problem.”

            Clarke’s nerves go on high alert, “What? No! What if he leaves before they get here?”

            “Then they get his stash and he’s SOL.”

            “Nope, no way.” She shakes her head, “That’s not good enough, we need to make sure he gets caught.”

            “And what would you propose we do, Clarke? Go in there and detain him ourselves?”

            “Well, why not?” She fights back.

            “Because he’s already killed a person, Clarke!” He hisses, “And I can guarantee you that it was not his first.”

Clarke shuts her mouth with an auditable click. Murphy had a point, this guy, Dax, _is_ dangerous and they are not exactly prepared to hold him if he brings out a weapon.

            “Fine. You’re right. What now?”

“You just stay here and act as watch out in case he leaves. I’m going to run over to that payphone a couple of streets up.” He turns to go, but stops at the last second, “Don’t go anything stupid.”

            He runs off and leaves Clarke standing in front of the warehouse containing the thief _and_ murder just beyond its doors. She watches as his figure disappears around a corner and she turns back around. Her teeth naw at her bottom lip as she watches the moon loom high over the decaying roof of the building. Well, at least it was all ending tonight one way or another.

***

            “Hello, 911? Yes, I heard some screaming and what sounded like gunshots coming from one of the abandoned warehouses in the shipping district? I think it came from the warehouse farthest from the dock. Oh, my name? My name is-” Murphy hangs up the receiver.

            “Fucking cops,” he mutters to himself, diggings his hands deeper into his pockets. He feels his phone buzz against his knuckles and he drags it out. Flicking the screen unlocked with his thumb, he sees a text from Clarke.

**Call Miller.**

            “Fucking-” He switches out of the text window and to the dialer.

***

            She did something stupid. To be fair, she _tried_ to just stay outside and play watchdog, but she kept getting too antsy. So, she started walking around the building, and then, of course, she spotted a place she could easily slip in. Honestly, it is just her luck that the cracked door led straight to Dax. At first, she tried to play the whole lost drunk party girl, but really that only works if she smelled like the inside of a liquor bottle, but alas, she was sober. And tied up. Did she mention that he tied her up? Because he did. Right to a god damn pole. She barely managed to get a text out to Murphy before he yanked the phone out of her hands.

            “Who’s John? You’re boyfriend?” Dax sneers, “Or perhaps it’s this Miller fellow.”

            Clarke snorts, unable to help herself, “Hardly. I’m not really his type.” She looks him up and down, “You’re not really either.”

            Dax snarls, “You better watch that pretty mouth of yours.”

            “Dude, you’ve already got me tied up, what more do you want?”

“For you to shut the fuck up.” Clarke clamps her lips down. “Good, now why the hell were you sneaking around my warehouse?”

Clarke looks at him expectantly as he waits for an answer.

            “Well?!” He growls.

            “Oh I’m sorry, did you want me to talk now?”

Her answer is a resounding slap across her cheek that whips her head to the side. The world spins for a brief second before she squeezes her eyes shut and regains equilibrium.

“That was a little unfair, all I did was ask a question.”

Another slap. God this was going to leave a red mark if not a fucking bruise. Dax opens his mouth to ask another question (or perhaps the same question, she really doesn’t know) when the familiar blare of sirens fill the air. Both their eyes flicker to the window to their far left to see the flashing lights of red and blue. Dax whirls on her once more, pulling free a gun from the back of his pants.

“Who the _fuck_ did you call?”

            “Well, 911 obviously. Did you think I would just sit here and let myself be kidnapped? That has got to be the _stupidest_ thing I’ve ever heard of.”

            “You fucking bi-”

            “FREEZE!” They both turn to see Bellamy standing a few feet away with a gun pointed directly them. What is scarier is the firm set of his jaw and his eyes that drip with unchecked fury. “Move one more muscle and I’ll shoot.”

            “I told Murphy to call Miller!” Clarke curses.

“Yeah, well Miller was driving, so guess who was lucky enough to pick up the phone.” Shit Miller was never going to let her live this down. It will be the damn lasagna all over again.

            During their slight exchange, Dax had shifted until he maneuvered Clarke in front of him as a human shield, albeit a tiny one he had to crouch to stay safe behind. He pressed the nozzle of the gun to her right temple.

            “Take one more step officer and I’ll blow her brains out.”

            Bellamy stops dead in his tracks and Clarke can see the muscle in his jaw tick from where she is standing. “You let her go, right _now_.”

            “And give up my hostage? No way.” He presses the gun closer to her head, “She’s coming with me.” He uses his free hand to pick at the knot he used to tie her hands behind the pole. Once her hands are free, he roughly grabs her arm and pulls her closer to him. “Now we are going to back out of here nice and slowly and you’re just going to stand there and watch us, do you understand?”

            “What makes you think I won’t shoot you the moment I get an opening?”

            Dax’s finger taps the trigger lightly (still too hard if you ask Clarke), “Because I don’t care how fast of a shot you think you are, but mine will reach her first. But by all means, _go for it_.”

            Bellamy’s eyes fall on hers and she can see the worry and doubt swimming in them. She holds his gaze, trying to convey to him that everything will be alright, but it doesn’t seem she’s getting through. Oh well, she guesses she’ll just have to prove it.

            With her hands-free, she is able to reach her hand into the waist band of her jeans and yank free the scalpel she hid back at Murphy’s apartment. (She’s not _so_ stupid to not come with a defensive weapon.)

“Bellamy now!” She drives the scalpel into her captor’s thigh and bolts away.

            Dax screams in pain, “You little-” his words are cut out by the sound of a gun going off followed by another and another.

            Clarke ducks under the table and stays there until the echoes of the gunshots have faded away and silence once again reclaimed the warehouse. When she finally does rise, she sees Dax standing completely still; two bullet holes carved into his torso, seconds before his body crumbles to the floor and not get up. She sags against the desk in relief.

            “Nice shot, Bell.” She turns back to Bellamy to find him on the ground as well.  Dread quickly fills her stomach as she launches herself off the desk and scrambles to his side. “ _Bellamy!!_ ”

             Her hands quickly start searching for any sign of injury, ready to stanch a wound if necessary, but she couldn’t find a single drop of blood. Beneath her fingertips, Bellamy begins to groan and stir. His fingers reach for the buttons of his shirt and quickly undo them. When he pulls apart the fabric, her eyes land on the bulletproof vest with a single casing embedded over his right pectoral muscle.

            “Oh thank God.” She collapses next to him, “I thought you got shot!”

            “I _did_ get shot.” He groans, pushing himself into a seating position.

            “Yes, but not like _shot_ shot.” She lets loose a burst of nervous laughter, “Jesus Christ.” Steadying herself on wobbly feet, she helps Bellamy up.

            “What the fuck were you thinking Clarke?”

            Clarke blinks at the sudden outburst, “What do you mean?”

            “You could have been _killed_!”

            Clarke bristles, “I _know_ that Bellamy! But there was no way you were getting that shot with me in the picture. I took a calculated risk and give you your best shot!”

            “A _calculated risk_?!” He runs a hand through his curls and holsters his gun with the other, “Jesus this is your life we are talking about Clarke! Not some fucking math problem!”

            “I don’t see your problem, Bellamy! It _worked_!”

            “But what if it didn’t!”

            “But it did!” Just then Miller and Murphy burst into the warehouse followed by a handful of other officers.

            “Is everything okay here?” Miller asks, “We heard shots being fired.”

            “Suspect is down,” Bellamy grits out, his eyes never leaving Clarke.

            Clarke clenches and unclenches her fist, “You know what, Bellamy? Fuck you. I don’t need this right now.” She stomps towards Murphy and yanks him by the arm, “Take me home. Now.”

            “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Bellamy barks, “You need to get checked out by the ambulance and make a statement!”

            “I’m a fucking doctor! I’m _fine_.” She turns to Miller, “Do I have to make a statement right this minute?”

            Bellamy’s eyes snap to Miller, who gulps nervously. “Technically no-” Bellamy audibly growls, “BUT it would be best to do it as soon as possible.”

            Clarke nods her head, “Then I’ll do it tomorrow. Let’s go Murphy.” She all but drags Murphy past the crowd of cops amassing outside the warehouse and back to his car. If Bellamy wanted to be an ungrateful little shit, he can. She’s had enough for one night.

***

            She barely makes it out of the shower and onto her couch when her front door opens and in walks Bellamy. Groaning, she throws a hand over her eyes.

            “What do you want _now_ because it’s to fight more, the door is right behind you.”

            “I’m not here to fight, Clarke.”

            “Oh really,” she sits up and glares at him, “that’s not what I’m getting from looking at you.”

            His jaw tenses, “What you did was really fucking stupid-”

            Clarke throws her hands up, “I’m not listening to this.” She pushes herself off the couch and starts for her bedroom door.

            “No you’re going to fucking listen to what I have to say!” Bellamy yells, “What you did was moronic Clarke. Miller told me what happened. You went after a dangerous criminal. _By yourself_. What the fuck was going through your mind?!”

            She whirls around, “You want to know what was going through my mind?” Clarke takes a step forward and pokes him in the chest, “Well take a big fucking look in the mirror.”

            “How the hell is this _my_ fault?!”

            “Because you come barging in here at fucking 2 in the god damn morning, stressed out to high hell, and running yourself to exhaustion! What am I supposed to do, Bellamy? Let you do that to yourself? No fucking way.”

            “So you go off and decide to catch a god damn criminal?” He scoffs, “How do you even make that leap!”

            “I don’t know!” She throws her hands up! “It made sense at the time!”

“You could have been killed!”

            “But I _wasn’t_.”

            “That doesn’t matter!”

            “And why not?!”

            “Because I’m in _fucking_ _love_ with you Clarke,” he roars, effectively shutting her up.

            “What?”

            His shoulders start to sag and he runs his hand through his hair then his face, “I’m in love with you Clarke and seeing that gun pressed against your head tonight-” He pauses, trying to gather his thoughts together. “I can’t lose you, Clarke. I just can’t okay.” His hands fall to his sides. “I’m in love with you.”

            It is as if the air if pushed out her lung and her last dying breath is, “Oh thank God.”

            She surges forward and yanks his head down so their lips will crash together. Her fingers wind themselves in the curls she loves so much and her tongue licks the seams of his lips begging for entrance. He opens them with a moan of his own and his arms encircle her body, pressing hers to firm line against his. She licks into his mouth and their tongues intertwine, swirling together in a dance that it seems like they were made to do. But, eventually her lungs scream for air and she’s forced to pull away, their forehead pressed together. His lips chase after hers and she relents, stealing short kisses between each breath.

            “I’m still mad at you.” He says after a moment, his eyes hooded as they stare into hers.

            “That’s okay,” she smiles, pressing a small kiss to his jaw, “Because you’re in love with me.” She kisses the corner of his lips, “And I’m in love with you.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Thank God.” Their lips crash together once more, but it’s shorter this time. It’s less about the desperation to convey what each of them is feeling and more savoring the moment.

            “While I would like nothing more than to kiss you all night,” Clarke sighs, “I’m completely exhausted.”

            Bellamy lets loose a sigh of his own, “Jesus, me too.”

            “Come on then,” Clarke steps away, letting her hand drag down his arm until it fell into his palm. She laces their fingers together and leans back, giving a little tug, “Let’s go to bed.”

            Bellamy follows her into the bedroom and, for the second time that week, they fall asleep together. Only this time, Clarke remains tucked into his side.

***

            “So you’re telling me,” Octavia points the tip of her beer in Clarke’s direction, “that instead of just admitting your feelings for my brother— who has been pining for you for years now— you decide it is just easier to go off and catch a fucking criminal?”

            “I did most of the work,” Murphy argues, shooting back a shot.

            Clarke shrugs, “Pretty much yeah,” she points a finger between Octavia and Murphy, “To the whole catching a criminal thing, not Murphy doing all the work.”

            “Unbelievable. You’re an idiot.”

            “Yeah,” Bellamy tightens his grip around Clarke’s waist, dragging her a bit closer to his side, “But she’s mine.”

            Clarke tilts her head upward and Bellamy places a chaste kiss to her lips. She smiles and leans her head against his chest. _Nancy Drew can suck it._


End file.
